Blackthorne Boys
by BookNextDoor
Summary: Before Gallagher Academy and before Cammie, Zach Goode was a student at Blackthorne Institute. A school for spies and assassins, or so they say. What really goes on at their school, no one knows for sure. What was Zach's life like at Blackthorne before he walked the halls of Gallagher? Told from Zach's perspective, Blackthorne Institute has the answers about what really goes on...
1. Chapter 1

**Author Note:** Hello! This is my first Gallagher Girls fanfic. I'm so excited to be writing this, especially in Zach's perspective. I had so many questions after finishing the series it felt right to make answers. How did Zach exactly feel as a student at Blackthorne? What did he go through? How did this school shape his personality? These questions haunt me even today. I'm so excited to be writing from Zach's POV, especially since we don't know much about him and his life. Thank you so much for reading. As always, reviews are always appreciated. I will be updating it as much as I can, until next time! :-)

P.S. **This is rated M for future violence and the nature of events.** As you may know, **Blackthorne Institute is _not_ a pleasant place** , so I felt as the author I would try to do that justice in portraying it as the total opposite of Gallagher Academy. **Expect weapons. Expect injuries. Expect blood. Expect violence.** That is all I will say for now as I do not know the future of where this is heading. I do not recommend reading if you are queasy to violence. I am also not responsible if you read a spoiler and blame me because I got a lovely spoiler warning below.

 ****WARNING MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS READ AT OWN RISK****

 **DO NOT READ UNLESS YOU HAVE FINISHED** **CROSS MY HEART AND HOPE TO SPY**

 _ **Blackthorne Boys**_

Chapter 1: Visitor

"You're back early."

I limp towards the bottom bunk bed, checking my watch. 0200 hours. Great, I still have a few hours to spare.

"I'm fine," I reply. I pull open my drawer, finding a familiar set of gray clothes. It's become a routine now. Put away my training clothes. Clean up. Make sure it's neat. Put on my sleeping clothes. Bed. My socks and shoes are neatly placed underneath my bed. No mistakes. Sleep, I tell myself. It sounds bizarre in my mind. I can sleep. It almost feels like a dream. And yet, I can't sleep. I never can. It feels endless. An hour later, I glance at Grant and Jonas. They're glaring at me.

"I'm flattered you're watching me sleep-"

"Zach, you have a giant cut on the side of your head," Grant points out angrily. "We're not blind you know." Figures.

Jonas sits there for a second, then reaches behind his bed after having an aha moment. He pulls out a bottle of water and cotton balls. Typical Jonas. Where he got the cotton balls I don't bother asking. "Do you mind?" He says, but it doesn't feel like a question. He's pissed. I'm surprised he can even see in the darkness, but I don't complain. The smell almost feels comforting.

"I told you, it's nothing. I tripped coming upstairs." Lie.

"You told us Foer was making you run laps," Grant snaps. He points at my head. "How do you explain the cuts from 2 days ago?"

"I wasn't completely lying-"

"What is he making you do?" Grant swears loudly. Jonas jumps in fright, but continues cleaning my head up. "I'm so sick of you lying behind our backs."

"You're not running laps, Zach. We've known for a while," Jonas adds.

I look away, refusing to answer them. They can't know.

"Look, I can't tell you."

"You think this is funny? That this is a game? You are such a stubborn, thick headed-"

Grant doesn't finish because a screaming alarm interrupts him.

We fumble in the darkness, grabbing our shoes and socks. We know drills like these. Jonas quickly stashes the first aid supplies back behind his bunk. Boys have started pouring out of the dormitories, sending students young and old into the frigid cold of October.

"This is not a drill," Kreminski barks. "OUTSIDE, NOW." He's fuming with rage, I never seen him this angry.

I can't help but roll my eyes, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in my head. I haven't slept enough the past few days. Not since Foer has started "extra training". I'm shocked at myself for wanting to sleep in my cold concrete of a bed. Jonas is already up and has his boots laced. He glances at me, but I can tell he's more nervous. Even in the darkness, I can see Grant hunched over at the window, peering outside to get a better window fogs up, but the steel bars made it hard to get a clear picture.

"What do you think is happening?" I say sleepily.

"I don't know, they're all lining up."

"It's probably nothing," Jonas says, reassuring us as always. "You sure you're okay Zach?"

"Yeah." Lie.

I wish I could agree with him.

Before we leave our rooms Grant shoots me another dirty look. "Don't think we're not going to discuss this." I give him a sheepish grin.

Everyone shuffles outside, without any reluctance or trouble. We're greeted instantly by a cloak of darkness, the only source of light coming from the nearby security tower. Sweeping for intruders. Or runaways. I try not to shiver so much, but wearing a tshirt in October isn't exactly comfy in weather conditions like now. The alarm continues to scream, then it suddenly goes off. Nothing. And it returns back to the way it was. Silent.

Kreminski steps out, a wicked glint in his eye. Behind him is a boy, not much older than 13. I recognize him right away. Straw colored hair in curls, it's Alex. Little Alex that could barely do twenty push ups. Alex, whose glasses always seemed to be crooked. This is the same Alex that picked a fight with the seniors.

"I hope you're all looking at me, because if you're pitying this pathetic shrimp here you should be up here with him." Kreminski surveys the rows and rows of boys in formation. "Why don't you tell us what you did, Alex?" He sneers, unapologetic.

Alex is nothing more than a boy, cocooned by the same set of gray clothes we're all wearing. He cries like an abandoned animal in the dead of the night. We continue to stand still. No one dares to step out of line, to say something rational, to comfort him even. Alex is a child crying for his missing parents. Whoever. Anyone.

We all know what happens if we don't follow the protocol.

I feel myself gritting my teeth when he slaps Alex firmly in the face with his clipboard, leaving behind a red welt. My knuckles are itching to punch Kreminski unconscious. Grant looks straight ahead, following orders. Jonas is shaking, whether from the cold or fear I couldn't tell.

"Blackthorne Institute does not tolerate what?"

"HESITATION," everyone shouts in unison.

"Let Alex set an example for you all. This is not once, but his third time trying to run away. Do you know what we do to runaways?" His face is ridden with humiliation, shamed by the fact a 13 year old nearly escaped the premises. Escaped the barbed wire, security guards, cameras, guard dogs, and all. It's not normal. It's not typical.

This isn't right.

He's just a kid.

A Blackthorne Boy.

A boy who doesn't belong.

Strike One is punishment and isolation. No food or water in the cells. Strike Two: The Basement. Whatever happens down there we don't question it. We see the results.

We're about to find out is what happens at strike three.

A gun materializes from Kaminsky's belt, and he points it at Alex, who is cowering on the ground, his face blotchy with tears.

For a moment I start to hesitate, but I've made up my mind.

Before he can even aim, I side step him, twisting his arm far back enough to hurt. He elbows me in the face, hard enough to render me useless momentarily. He attempts to fire, but decides to kick me squarely in the stomach instead, knocking me off balance. A ripple of pain sends me clutching my stomach. Grunting with my last effort, I swing my leg, knocking him off balance.

Bang.

Situations like these they ingrain the same things into your head. Never. Panic. Instincts kick in and I'm already checking for an exit wound. Kreminski is cursing on the ground like crazy. Alex was jostled to the ground during the confusion, but is alive. He has a grin on his face. That punk. A blank. It was a blank. I should have known. Tired..I feel so tired.

"Demonstration is over, gentlemen. Return to your rooms. Well done Zachary, but not good enough," a voice calmly says. "Your technique was sloppy. I'm disappointed in you all. Back to your quarters, tomorrow morning is technique day. 5 am sharp." It seems to be coming from the speakers, but I'm willing to bet it was a set up. Everyone is staring at me in shock. I stepped out of line. I pushed an instructor onto the ground.

I don't care.

My ear is still ringing. I feel a faint trickle of blood from my cut. No one dares to move, until a figure steps out onto the middle of the field. I'm on my knees, too weak to stand up. Drowsy. I feel like slipping...tired. So tired. My vision has started blurring, shapes becoming unrecognizable. Focus. I don't know who he is. But I do. I should. I've seen him before, a picture in a file tucked safely away. A name that matches the face staring right at me. But they don't know that. Of course they don't.

"Joe Solomon,"I say faintly, before passing out.

 **TO BE CONTINUED**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Blackthorne Boys**_

 **Chapter 2 : Questions**

I wake up at dawn. I would be doing running drills outside if it weren't for the handcuffs on my wrist and the hidden camera behind the vent. Outside the window, I hear the sound of the screaming whistle. Typical Blackthorne. My face stings a little, probably from my wounds opening up again.

The door clicks open, and another man I've never seen before enters. He's wearing a pristine suit, a briefcase in one hand. I don't bother to greet him, faking sleep is more preferable than talking anyday.

"Good morning, Zachary," he says anyway, the chair scraping as he pulls it near my bedside.

"Are you here to expel me?" I say, staring at the wall. Even if he tried, it would be difficult.

He chuckles, his voice brittle. "Why would I want to do that? I'm here to be your friend, Mr. Goode. You see, the administration isn't too happy about what happened last night."

"I didn't know it was a demonstration."

"No, Zachary, we don't care about what happened to Mr. Kreminski. We want to know what you know about Joe Solomon."

"Nothing."

He rubs his hands together. "We have witnesses who say they heard you say his name. How could you possibly know of Joe Solomon? Or is there anything else you'd care to share?"

I watch his face shift from a relaxed state to pure concentration. Whatever he wants me from I clearly don't know or have. "All I know about Joe Solomon is that he is an alumnus of Blackthorne. That's all."

"And how did you attain this information?"

I'm ready to tell another white lie when the door swings open again. This time it's a woman with dark red hair and porcelain skin. I recognize her instantly.

"Mom," I croak.

The man stands up quickly, shaking hands with my mom. "Mrs. Goode," he says. He looks weak in her presence. "I was interrogating Zachary-"

"Why is my son in handcuffs?" The scowl on her face means business. "Unlock them and get out." She flashes him a smile.

"But Mrs. Goode-"

"Just Ms. Goode will suffice, David. I'll handle it from here." The door slams shut, the silence louder than it was before.

"How have you been, darling?" She reveals a set of gleaming teeth.

"Fine." I rub my raw wrists.

"Tell me, how did you get the file on my desk?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

A slap counteracts my stubbornness. I don't even flinch. There's no way to reason with her, she's not sane anymore I tell myself.

"The file, Zach," she says softly. "Why did you tamper with the file?"

But even my years of Blackthorne training can't stop me from caving in. She's my mother. She brought me into this world. She taught me everything I needed to know. I am not a good person.

"I was curious. I heard things about Solomon becoming a teacher here. I wanted to know why there was so much commotion. The school is undergoing some... changes." What changes, I don't really know.

She doesn't give me an answer. Instead, she locks the handcuffs, plants a kiss on my head, and leaves me alone in the room.

A mother's love is the strangest thing.

The next time I wake up, I'm in my room. Except this time, Grant and Jonas are glaring at me again.

"Hey," I reply.

"Hey?" Grant echoes. "You go missing after last night and all you can say is hey?"

Jonas pulls rips some bread in half. "Here, you must be starving. Breakfast wasn't that great anyway."

"When is it ever?" I say, swallowing the stale bread. " I spent a brief vacation in the hospital wing. She came and visited me."

"Your mom?" Grant asks, eyes widening. "Doesn't she have Circle business to attend to?" He lowers his voice when he says Circle.

"When was the last time you saw her anyway?" Jonas asks.

"2 or 3 years ago," I shrug. "How were drills this morning?"

"Enough about the drills, why make a trip to Blackthorne for no reason?"

"Joe Solomon, alumnus. She was interested in what I knew about him."

"Maybe he can be trusted," Jonas suggests.

"Or dangerous," Grant adds. "Whatever you got yourself into Goode, we want in."

"W-we? I don't remember-" Jonas sputters.

"You do now," I say, clapping him on the back. "Weapon Practice starts now anyway."

"Alright. But you better tell us what you know. Oh, and you're still in your sleeping clothes."

"Yeah, well nobody's perfect," I mutter.

 **TO BE CONTINUED**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Flashback**

"P-please, kill me if you have to. I beg you, have mercy on my son," Catherine sobbed.

"Mommy, I don't want you to die," I plead, pulling on her arm. She shoves me aside, trying to put distance us and the assailant wielding a gun. She starts to back away slowly, with one hand held up as if it's some kind of protection. Help us, I scream in my mind. We're going to die here.

"Shut the fuck up," he sneers, smashing a lamp. He forcefully throws the vase towards my mom, its pieces shattering into thin razor knives. One of the pieces leaves a burning sensation tingling along my eyebrow. The blood makes me wail in terror.

"Show me the damn money." He points the gun at her in a threatening notion. "I'll kill you if I have to, bitch. I know you're loaded." He walks closer, aiming the gun at her head for the kill. He glances behind her, staring at me. The gun moves to me instead.

"Am I going to die?" I ask.

I can't move and I can't speak. My eyes dart around nervously, eyeing the gun and eyeing the body of my terrified mother frozen up against the fireplace.

"No," she says defiantly.

"No? You bitch-" he roars

"Get. out. of. my. house," she screams, charging the fire poker at him. She makes repeated stabbing motions, swinging the fire poker at his head.

Surprised by her attack, the gun slams into the ground, sliding over to where I'm standing. My eyes grow wide. I've never been this close to a gun. The last time I saw one up close was when a police officer visited the school. Even then, the sight of a gun suddenly materializing in front of me is enough to freeze me up.

"Run Zach," she screams. "Run and don't look back!" He grabs a fistful of her hair, slamming her head repeatedly against the ground. I watch in horror as my mom screams helplessly. She gains enough strength to bite his arm, stabbing him in the gut repeatedly with her elbow. Her efforts start to become futile when he slams her against the wall, putting her in a chokehold.

"You better run little boy," he laughs, spitting blood on the living room carpet. "Wouldn't want you to see your mom die, huh?"

"I can't," I whisper. "Mom I can't move…" It feels like cement being poured in my legs.

All I see is the gun sitting in front of me. There's power in that gun. I've seen what it can do on TV. I've seen what it did for that man. I can take his power away.

I can protect my mom, I can save her.

"No one has to die," I say shakily. I pick up the gun. "Leave my mom alone!" I don't know how to use it, and it feels heavy in my palm.

"I'm a bad guy, little boy. People like you don't win," he grins. "Shoot me and I'll make sure she never speaks again."

"Put the gun down Zach, listen to the man. No one has to get hurt," she says. "I'll give you the money, just, just leave my son alone."

"Once I kill you, I'll kill him too."

She screams as the man breaks her arm. It sends a chill down my spine. I've never heard anything so horrific. Instead of hearing my heart pounding in my ears, I hear… nothing. I feel anger from head to toe. My arm moves upward, poising the gun at the man. I aim it at his forehead, and after a few breaths my hand has steadied.

"I'll kill her, I'll do it!"

I press the trigger like I was born to do it.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

4 bullets. 1 dead man.

"Zachary," his mother cries, squeezing his ribs in a hug. "Oh, you brave boy. You saved my life," she repeats, tears in her eyes. "I, we, would be dead if it wasn't for you. You did the right thing, baby," she says, kissing his forehead.

She has blood all over her face. I can't move. I can't breathe.

"I just killed a man," I realize, dropping the gun to the floor. It splashes with the pool of redness. I killed a man mom." Every worst case scenario I can think of pops into my mind.

"Sweetie, nothing is going to happen to you, I promise."

"But-"

"It was a test. You passed, Zach," she says, hugging me even tighter. "You passed, I am so proud of you."

"I don't understand," I say, my voice still shaking. "Mom, what's going on?"

"I need you to trust me Zach. Everything will be explained soon enough."

He was my first kill.

I was told that I wasn't supposed to kill him by the director of Blackthorne himself. The assailant was a volunteer from Blackthorne.

How could I have known?

I was 9 years old then, when I killed for the first time.

I'm 16 now, and I still think about the blood on my hands.

And every time I wash it away, the red stays.

This is how I got placed in Group 0 at Blackthorne Institute.

This is the same program that trained Joe Solomon when he was a student at Blackthorne. The Circle uses this program to recruit members at a young age, brainwashing them to believe that what's wrong is right and what's right is wrong.

Start young, die young.


End file.
